There was a season when my home felt less like a refuge and more like a place I collapsed into at the end of the day. I would drop my keys, sit in silence, and wonder how I could be so exhausted while technically being “fine.” Nothing was falling apart on the outside. Bills were paid. Life was moving forward. But internally, I was running on fumes—burned out, grieving versions of myself I no longer recognized, and navigating transitions I hadn’t planned for.